Submerged
by Kyra4
Summary: She can't think. She can't move. She is rooted to the ground, utterly paralyzed. [BREATHE.] At first she's not even sure whether this thought is directed at herself, or at Gunther... although upon further reflection she supposes it MUST be directed at herself. Because certainly HE cannot breathe.


_A/N: One-shot. Enjoy! And I heart reviews!_

 _A giant thank-you goes out to Biscuitweevil for the stunning cover art! (I mean, it wasn't created for this fic per se, but I asked permission to use it because DAMN did it feel relevant!)_

* * *

In her naiveté, she'd thought she'd known what panic was.

She hadn't.

She'd thought she'd recognized panic when they'd first gotten the word: that all diplomatic avenues had failed, that they were going to war.

She'd been wrong.

She'd thought she'd tasted panic when they'd learned the true size of the enemy's force.

She'd been wrong.

She'd thought she'd felt panic when the two lines had clashed; surely then! If that hadn't been panic, what _was?_

She'd been wrong.

She'd thought she'd known panic when she'd been separated from Dragon; Sir Theodore had been wounded, and Dragon had borne him away from the fighting, to hopefully be saved. She'd told Dragon to go – of _course_ she had; her mentor's life had been at stake. Still, the feeling that had overwhelmed her, watching the pair of them dwindle and be lost to the horizon – _panic_. It had to be.

She'd been wrong.

She'd thought surely she'd experienced panic when she had then, almost immediately afterward, been separated from _Gunther_ too – swept apart by the tide of battle, despite valiant efforts on both their parts to keep tabs on each other.

But oh, she'd been wrong.

None of that had been panic. Not real panic. Not pure, crystalline, distilled-to-its-truest-nature panic. Nothing she'd felt before had even come close.

She knows this now, beyond a shred of doubt, because now she understands what genuine panic actually is. It is what comes crashing over her in the moment that she first sees him _again_.

Because there is a muddy, _bloody,_ churned-up waterway that cuts through the midst of the battlefield; too large to be called a creek, too small to be called a river. She doesn't know its name, she doesn't know its origin. But she knows _this_ much beyond the shadow of a doubt; a human being cannot breathe beneath its surface.

And when she sees Gunther again, he is lying face-down in the shallows, dark hair drifting like seaweed, entirely submerged.

* * *

"No."

In her head, it is a soul-deafening shriek, but all that passes her lips is a whisper; a sick little sound, a sound of horror beyond comprehension, the sound of a poor, dumb beast that has just, quite unexpectedly, been gutted where it stands.

She can't think. She can't move. She can't breathe. She is rooted to the ground by the power of that tiny and yet all-encompassing _no_.

She is utterly paralyzed.

 _Breathe._

The thought is detached; clinical. It almost seems to come from outside herself. And at first she's not sure whether it's directed _at_ herself – or at Gunther.

Although upon further reflection she supposes it _must_ be directed at herself; certainly _he_ can't breathe.

 _HE CANNOT BREATHE_.

The realization – the actual true _understanding_ of this fact – bursts over her like nothing she's ever experienced before. This must be what some small animal, low on the food chain, feels the first time Dragon's shadow ever sweeps over it.

She's moving then, without any conscious awareness of it at all.

She has no memory, later, of closing the distance that separates them. The next thing she knows she's just _there_ , ankle-deep in the murky water, mud and sludge sucking at her boots as she grabs him under the arms and hauls him onto the shore.

Fortunately it is only a matter of inches because dear God, he is heavy! He weighs nearly twice what she does, and that's under ordinary circumstances – without taking into account his armor, and the accompanying padding and underclothes, and the fact that he – and all that additional weight as well – is now thoroughly waterlogged and utterly limp.

Lifeless.

 _No. Do not say that, do not even_ think _it, it is not true,_ not true! _NO!_

But of course it could well be true. How long has he been under? Seconds? Minutes? _Longer?_ Time grows strange during battle, Jane has found; sometimes it contracts, sometimes it stretches. It is impossible to keep track of, according to ordinary standards; a minute can feel like an hour, and vice versa. But if forced to guess at how long it's been since she saw him last, she thinks it must be at _least_ half an hour… which might as well be an eternity.

Because he was underwater. Oh sweet God in heaven, he's been _underwater!_ It doesn't necessarily follow that he's been submerged the entire time, but what if he has? WHAT IF HE _HAS?_

"Gunther," she pants, dropping to her knees beside him in the mud, heedless of the way the slimy muck sucks at her, heedless of the battle continuing to ebb and flow around her; the cries of the men, the clang of steel on steel, the screams of wounded horses, the smell of blood in the air.

It all recedes from her awareness. There is nothing, _nothing_ left except for her and Gunther.

 _Oh Gunther, Gunther, Gunther please_ …

Grunting with effort, she heaves him over onto his back and shoves his sopping hair out of his face; it lies across his forehead like a spill of black ink. She starts fumbling, desperately, with buckles and laces; fingers numb, _mind_ numb. Knowing she needs to get some of his armor, his heavy padded outerwear, _off_ of him so that hopefully – _oh God please_ – she can manage to force the sludgy water _out_ of him.

Some of it, anyway. Enough of it. Enough to see him sputter, hear him cough, and she'll never ask for anything else, ever ever again…

 _I swear it. I swear it. Please, oh_ please…

She becomes aware that her lips are forming words, just the same few words, over and over again; she hadn't even realized. She rips, she tugs, she manhandles him frantically, crazed thoughts racing through her mind; _I need you to open your eyes, I need you to move, to sit up, to spit this disgusting water out all over me, something,_ anything _, I do not care, anything, Gunther, I need you to BREATHE_ –

But the only part of all this that makes it past her lips is, "I need you... I need you... _I need you_."

And it's true. Her companion since childhood, her comrade in arms, her partner. She cannot lose him like this, _cannot_ , it is unthinkable. A hiccupping sob takes her, but _there_ – she has released him from most of his armor.

Chaos continues to swirl all around them. She registers none of it. Even her Dragon Sword, her most precious possession, lies a couple of feet away in the muck, where she dropped it when she lunged to drag Gunther out of the water; temporarily forgotten.

Nothing matters but this. The world has narrowed down to her and Gunther, and it will not widen out again until he draws a breath.

 _BreatheGuntherdamnyoudamnyouBREATHE…!_

She places one hand atop the other, over his sternum, nearly dead-center on his torso. They really want to shake, her hands…but she grits her teeth and forces them steady. She _has_ to be steady. For him. His life is entirely in her hands now. Unless, of course, it's already too late.

 _Not too late. It is not, it is NOT. I will not_ let _it be too late, I refuse!_

Straddling him, throwing all her weight into it, she presses down – _surges_ down – a wordless plea beating behind her temples. A wave of brackish, brown water is forced up and out of him, but he doesn't cough, doesn't sputter, doesn't blink, doesn't move.

So she does it again.

"Gunther…"

And again.

"Come _on_ …"

And again.

 _You can beat this damn it I know you can you have to you HAVE_ _to!_

And _again._

And then…

* * *

His whole body heaves, wracked by a sudden, desperate coughing fit. His eyes fly open, just for an instant, then slam shut again… but that split second that they lock on hers – wide, shocked, disoriented, scared, but gloriously, miraculously aware and _alive_ – in that split second she feels the most intense, dizzying wave of gratitude she has ever experienced in her life.

… _Thank God thank God thank God thank God oh thank you GOD_ …

Then he's struggling to turn onto his side, still coughing and spitting, and she helps him. Her hands, at last, are shaking; in fact, _all_ of her is shaking. It feels as if every ounce of strength has evaporated from her body.

But he's breathing. Jagged, ragged, painful gasps, his fingers digging into the mud as his body spasms helplessly… but he's breathing. She actually slumps against him, back to back, although she is sitting now while he's still lying on his side. Shuddering with reaction, she pulls up her knees and drops her head onto them.

Time passes. Maybe a moment. Maybe an age. She cannot say with any clarity. Nor does it matter. He is alive. He is _alive_. And that is enough.

Finally, "Jane," he croaks, levering himself up on an elbow, and she digs deep and finds the energy, somewhere-somehow, to crawl around to the other side of him, so they are face to face.

"Wha… what happened?" she manages, her own voice no more trustworthy, in this moment, than his. "How did… what happened to you?"

Staring at her with haunted eyes, a darker grey than she has ever seen them, he slowly shakes his head. "I do… not remember." And then a second later, "you brought me back." And a second after that, his eyes shifting past her and then back again, "you dropped your sword."

 _I would have thrown it off the edge of the earth if that was what it took to save you_ , she thinks, but all she says is, "yes."

"Jane," he says again, and that is all.

Her arm moves then, seemingly of its own volition; she watches, nearly as startled as he is, as her hand closes the scant distance between them to first cup his cheek, and then to brush his still-wet, stringy hair back, out of his eyes.

 _I did that before, too_ , she thinks; _before, while he was not br_ –

And then in one quick motion he is sitting up, reaching out both-handed, and pulling her to him, _yanking_ her to him, his arms encircling her with such desperate ferocity that for a space of heartbeats _she_ is the one who cannot breathe… and that is all right with her.

That is just fine.

She lets her head fall forward, her temple clunking gently against his collarbone, and feels the heat coming off him, inhales the scent of him, and closes her eyes.

 _He is alive. He is all right. He is alive. He is all right_.

And she now knows, beyond doubt, what real panic is; she has tasted its acrid flavor, and she will _never_ forget it as long as she lives. But it's past now. Thank God. It's past.

They stay like that for a long, spiraling moment, until the reality of their situation slowly begins to reassert itself. They are still in the middle of a battlefield, after all. An _active_ battlefield.

At virtually the same time, almost as if choreographed, they both straighten up.

She tries to smile at him… tries, and fails. She is still far too deeply shaken. She came moments from losing him forever. _Seconds_ , maybe. And looking into his eyes, which are still just a shade or so off their usual color, she realizes that this has changed _him_ on a profound level as well; changed him subtly, perhaps, but fundamentally.

 _You brought me back_ , he said. He'd been gone. Not breathing. _Gone_.

He will _never_ be quite the same as he was before. Nor will she. Nor will their relationship with each other.

But these sort of reflections will have to be saved for another time. Right now, the immediacy of what's going on around them is surging back in; the fight goes on, and they must rejoin it.

They clamber to their feet, helping each other, lending support until they are both more or less steady again. Gunther rakes a hand through his hair; takes a deep, if slightly shaky, breath, and says, "You should probably pick your sword back up, frog-rider, seeing as we are in the midst of a battle and all, what do you think?"

Jane feels something, some tight, hot little knot, loosen inside of her as she answers, " _You_ should probably put your armor back on, dung-brain, and it may be advisable to avoid taking any more naps _underwater!_ "

He grins at her then, and he is having far more success than she did when she tried on a smile moments ago; this is a _real_ grin. Rueful, but genuine.

And just like that, everything is back to how it should be, how it is _supposed_ to be. Or close enough, at any rate. And she laces her fingers through his for just the briefest instant, and squeezes; and then they are breaking apart, and getting their bearings, and carrying on.


End file.
